


we can be heroes if we just close our eyes (head first, can't lose)

by weaslayyy



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaslayyy/pseuds/weaslayyy
Summary: captain america santiago is one of the greatest human fighters the world has ever known, a tactical genius and an inspiration to billions who see her and know that the proper application of steroids can turn anyone with a little courage into SHIELD's finest.jake peralta, alias iron dude, is a punk ass bitch.





	1. "what a coup for the propaganda"

**Author's Note:**

> ok so first of all this isn't a traditional avengers au yet! this is part one of a two part multi chapter that i absolutely haven't written in full so don't go waiting for something that won't be completed lol. its a combo of megamind avengers b99 and an amnesia fic <3 :)
> 
> jake: iron dude, works outside the law, amy's nemesis (but they're frenemies)  
> charles: hawkdude, jake's loyal sidecick
> 
> ray holt: nick fury  
> gina: black widow  
> amy: captain america (santiago)  
> terry: thor  
> rosa: the hulk

“Jake’s gone and robbed another bank,” Black Widow says, filing her nails. She tosses a glance at Amy, filing away the last of her paperwork and pauses. “.....you could go stop that, if you’re in the mood, Cap.”

Captain America rolls her eyes and signs the last form. “Make sure that Holt gets this, alright?” Amy wonders whether she should put on her uniform, before deciding to just grab her shield. It’s not as if Peralta’s expecting anyone else.

“Excuse you, but I am a highly ranked Agent of this fine, international organization,” Gina says, “I’m like, second in command of all this shit. Go find a real secretary to do your dirty work.”

“You’re playing Kwazy Kupcakes,” Amy observes. Gina raises an eyebrow without looking away from her phone.

“And I snapped three necks between my thighs before 9 a.m,” Gina drawls. “I’m magical, bitch. Get on my level.”

Amy sighs, rolling her shoulders a little. “Just...make sure Holt sees the report, okay?”

“Jake’s probably robbed two banks in the time it took for us to have this little chat, but whatever.” Gina waves the fingers of her free hand vaguely in Amy’s direction. “We’re having a bit of a morale issue so don’t do any property damage, use two types of birth control, you know the drill.”

Amy does, in fact, know the drill. She strides into the elevator and checks the instructions that Gina’s managed to send her on the way down. It’s a screenshot of a series of text messages Peralta sent Gina about ten minutes ago, if the timestamp is correct. She reaches the ground floor, nods at a passing Agent and heads out to the parking lot still scrolling through the images.

 

_stealin sme shit from the bank on prk ave_

_tell america 2 wear her civvies_

_her leather jacket is A+_

_she shud wer more leather less pantsuits_

_k the alarms r off c ya l8r sk8r_

 

Amy looks down at her gabardine pantsuit and realizes two things simultaneously. 1) She needs to change out of her chunky heels, and 2) She’s going to have to wear her leather jacket, and Peralta will never let it go.

One change of shoes and jacket later, she’s on the road, cruising through traffic on her motorcycle. A child notices her shield strapped to her back and yells out excitedly, a young couple whistles three times before Amy is too far out of range to hear. Grandparents walking on the sidewalk salute, and Captain America Santiago switches between waving and a gentle smile, befitting her status as national icon.

Sometimes, she kind of loves her job. And then other times, she has to go fight Iron Dude in the streets of Manhattan.

“Ayyyy America!” Peralta shouts when she arrives. He’s currently occupied with throwing handfuls of what look to be hundred dollar bills from a giant bag he’s carrying in his left hand, repulsors keeping him airborne as he makes it rain money on the good denizens of New York. “Come to collect some extra cash? They can’t be paying you very well at SHIELD.”

Amy rolls her eyes, taking her gun out of its holster and shooting at the bag. Peralta moves slightly and they both watch as the bullet misses its target by inches.

“Were you even trying?” he asks laughing. Peralta throws another handful of bills into the air. Amy shrugs, grabbing some cash off the ground. Definitely hundreds, then. She readies her gun and fires again, this time repeatedly, anticipating any way he might move and meeting him with a bullet.

One of the bullets grazes Iron Dude’s hand, another three puncture the bag in quick succession. It drops on the pavement, and Amy smiles. Peralta groans, sound only slightly incongruous when filtered through the voice modulator of the Iron Dude suit.

“You’re the worst, America. All I wanted to do was even out the distribution a little, fight the power, you know?” Amy rolls her eyes.

“Then write a letter to your Congressman, Peralta. And stop calling me that.” He comes back to Earth, and steps forward.

“Stop calling you what, America? It’s your name, isn’t it? Tell me, did your parents know they were visionaries, or did they just assume they were when they named you. I mean what a coup for the propaganda: Captain America’s legal name literally being America Santiago.”

“Like I told you the last like fifty times you’ve asked me that, no my parents are not prophets, or fortune tellers nor are they actual fortune cookies you can purchase from Panda Express for three dollars,” Amy says with only a little hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. She forces down a distressing urge to place her hands on her hips. “And only my friends can call me by my first name.”

Iron Dude gasps, placing his hands over his heart. “I thought we had something, oh Captain my Captain! Was it all.....a _lie_? Say it ain’t so Cap-i-tan!”

Amy rolls her eyes. “I’m surprised you’ve even read Walt Whitman.”

Peralta cocks his head. “Who? I was quoting that Robin Williams movie, you know the one with the kids who stand up on their desks?”

She blinks. “The Dead Poets Society?” Peralta nods. “Yeah, that one! My eighth grade English teacher showed it to us ‘cause she wanted to like, inspire everyone to read poetry and crap but we all kind of just spun in circles and jumped up on our desks.” He strokes the chin of his helmet. “I think she got fired after the principal caught us playing leapfrog on the tables.”

Amy thinks she can be forgiven for throwing her shield. She takes a perverse pleasure in watching the way it makes stupid Peralta stumble backwards, and the hollow sound his Iron Ass makes when it touches the ground. She catches the shield when it boomerangs back and cocks her head.

“Jake Peralta,” she begins. “You have the right to remain silent, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of--”

He rises, brushing himself off. Amy debates the merits of actually engaging in a fight, looking around for a moment as she performs a cost-benefit analysis in her head. Pros: she gets to bash in his stupid looking suit. Cons: they always manage to take down a building or two, and then Amy has to clean up the rubble while the Times takes a bunch of candids for the print edition and Snapchats the rest.

Their Snapchat following has shot up through the roof, mainly because Amy reached a deal where she’d give a quick interview while she worked if the photographers made sure not to publish the dorkiest looking pictures they take of her. She knows what she looks like in battle, and the way she grits her teeth is definitely not something she wants to see on the front page of her Sunday Edition.

Amy checks to make sure Peralta doesn’t have anything but his suit on him, and throws her shield one more time. She smirks at the satisfying bang, and hope it really hurts when he starts flying again, waving as he jets over her head.

“This was fun and all,” he says, “but I’ve really got a prior engagement. Byeeeeeee”

Amy barely resists showing her middle finger, but most of her impulse control right now is coming from the small child she can see staring across the street. She notices people staring, most likely curious at why she let a criminal fly off into the sunset.

“Money’s a little tight in Albany,” she says to the crowd. “No one really wants to pay for another fallen building...and he left the money, right?”

Everyone laughs, nodding their head at her explanation. Amy starts picking up the cash on the ground, and wonders if she should have made better life choices. Ones that wouldn’t end up with her using a very expensive vibranium shield to hold hundred dollar bills she’s picking up off the road.

“Captain America! Oh my god, Mom, it's Captain America!” Amy turns to see the little girl jumping up and down across the road. “She’s the coolest, oh my god do you think she’ll sign something for me?”

Amy smiles faintly and turns to face her adoring fan, crossing the street to give her a hug and an autograph. Maybe a little clean up isn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

She looks back at the road, notices the milling bank executives and groans.

Fucking Peralta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS I RELY ON KNOWING HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT EVERYTHING I DO THANKS A MILLION I HAVE NO IDEA IF THIS IS GOOD OR NOT YOU'RE THE BEST 
> 
> (im a thirsty bitch but w/e its fine its all good i lost all shame)


	2. suck iiittttt (no director holt, not you, of course not, im so sorry sir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is what your tax dollars pay for

Amy walks back into SHIELD headquarters just in time to note that the afternoon meeting has been moved up, and is scheduled to start in....twenty seconds. 

Shit. 

The elevator takes fifteen, another seven for the dash down the hallway, three to key herself into the room and she manages to casually sink into her chair only five seconds late. Five seconds is okay, it's fine, normal, even. Sitting around the table she notes Thor near the head...out of his armor for the first time and wearing a muscle shirt Sharon must have bought him, polishing off a massive tub of Greek yogurt. Gina’s seat is empty, but one bedazzled shoe is hanging on the edge of the tabletop so she’s probably listening to the conversation, even if she can’t be bothered to be in the same room as them. Dr. Diaz is at Amy’s side, scrawling comments in the margin of a physics journal she’s brought to keep her occupied. There are entire columns viciously crossed out, skulls and knives drawn in between paragraphs, and a suspicious spot of blood near the corner of the page. Diaz looks as close to content as Amy has ever seen her. 

“Santiago, you are five seconds late to today’s meeting” 

Amy colors, forcing herself to look at Director Holt, seated at the head of the conference table. 

“I was helping with--”

“I am aware of the altercation with Peralta, which is why I will not be making a note of your tardiness. If you would please--”

Rosa looks up from where she’s shading in the blood dripping from a dagger, inky drops blotting out an equation. “You saw Jake today?” 

Holt and Amy nod in unison. “He was robbing a bank,” Amy explains, grabbing for the bowl of the peanuts Thor likes to snack on when he’s bored. “I confronted Peralta, shot the bag of hundred dollar bills out of his hand, and cleaned up. He got away, but there was no property damage, as I was instructed to avoid.” 

Diaz raises an eyebrow. “What was Jake doing with the money?” 

“Redistributing it to the impoverished victims of Wall Street, apparently,” answers Gina’s voice from the ceiling panel directly above Holt’s head. In the short silence that follows, they can all hear the chime for a ‘Kupcake Match’ which means she’s probably well on her way to beating Holt’s high score from two days ago, when he had thirty-six solid hours of recon and nothing but Kwazy Kupcakes to kill time. 

“Nice,” Diaz nods, smirking. Amy isn’t sure if the smirk is for Peralta’s one man crusade against the evils of capitalism, or for Gina’s high score. She closes her eyes with a vague sense of despair either way. 

“The government, Dr. Diaz, disagrees,” Holt says, pointedly refusing to glance at the ceiling. “Your friendship with the man aside, and although Peralta’s motives might be better than the average criminal, his actions are childish and his long term goals are never achieved. He would be better served working within the system, rather than simply lobbing pastel colored eggs at the NYPD Police chief to protest racialized police brutality.”

Amy reminds herself to keep the corners of her lips turned down, even as she gleefully remembers to tell Peralta  _ exactly  _ what Holt said about him. For some reason he always takes criticism from Holt harder than he does from any of the other government authority figures that regularly talk shit about him in the press. 

Also, she knows for a fact that Peralta actually feels a little guilty about the egg thing, but only because he hadn’t known that Holt had had a meeting with Chief Garner that day and was thus directly in the line of fire. The pastel eggshells were apparently genetically modified to stain skin, and had taken some time to completely fade away. The Director had worn a ski mask and full bodysuit for a week. 

“But moving on,” Holt continues, “it would seem that the Vulture has decided to resurface.” 

Amy clenches her jaw. Diaz purses her lips, underlining a phrase five times before writing ‘dum dum’ in the margin. Gina takes a deep breath and groans for two minutes and fifty-four seconds. Thor finishes off the last of his yogurt, takes a peanut, and offers his opinion. 

“I don’t like that man.” 

The ceiling panel disappears, and the top half of Gina’s body hangs in the gap. 

“Terrence! You speak! Are you and your sexy voice and your super sexy body going to sex up this sad meeting of disgusting pantsuits, the Director and the incandescently angry Rosa Diaz?” 

“I thought his name was Thor,” Diaz says in response. “Also, I’m not angry.” 

“You’re always angry, boo. You just ain’t showing it, that’s all.” 

Amy looks at the bashed in skull that Diaz is outlining around the author bio of the article, and bites her lip. Diaz goes green when she really shows anger, Amy reminds herself, noting the comforting shade of brown her colleague currently is, before looking back at Thor. Or.... Terrence?

Thor/Terrence nods, reaching over and taking a peanut. “She’s right. Sharon told me that it would be tough if I was Thor all the time, and that she wanted me to have a different name when out of the armor with her and the kids and our friends. And also for when we’re all outside and don’t want to be recognized as Lord Thor and his family. So I chose Terrence, which I’m shortening to Terry and taking her last name, if that’s cool with y’all.” 

Everyone but Gina, who has gone back to Kwazy Kupcakes while hanging upside down from the ceiling, stares. It’s the first time Thor...Terry, has sounded like an actual human being, and not like the Lord of Asgard. 

“Also,” he adds, “I’ve been trying to sound more human.” He smiles brightly. “Y’all.” 

Holt is the first to recover. “Indeed,  _ Terry _ . I am sure we will all be very interested in the results of your....attempt.” 

Amy nods, taking a peanut. “Sounds like it’s really working out with you and Sharon!” she says faintly, mind still trying to reconcile the God of Thunder with....Terry. 

“Indeed--I mean, yes!” he exclaims, reaching to pull out the wallet he keeps full of pictures of Sharon and the twins. Gina drops out of the ceiling before he can start showing the team pictures of the twins’ latest growth milestone, which seems to shock Holt back into taking control of both the room and the briefing. 

Knowing Gina, that was probably exactly what she was trying to do.  _ Ugh _ . 

“As I was saying, the Vulture is back, and seems determined to create as much mischief as possible.” The tabletop flickers, and a picture of a crime scene is projected onto the glass. “Here is a visual of his last attack, that of a Brooklyn orphanage. This next one, is from a Brooklyn fire station.”

Amy’s lip curls in disgust. “This can’t just be him. Pembroke....is volatile, but he wouldn’t attack genuine public services without someone pointing them out for him in the first place.” 

Holt nods. “It is my belief that someone is guiding him as well; as you said, these hits are atypical of a man like Pembroke. However, I cannot seem to find who might have hired him, so until we are aware of their identity we will have to satisfy ourselves with the Vulture.” 

Diaz looks at Pembroke, his eyes wild as he sets fire to the fire station, and grunts softly. 

“I think he got hotter while he was gone,” she says, as Gina leans closer to the glass to study her own picture, this one of the Vulture using a reinforced sledgehammer on one of the walls of the orphanage.

“Hair’s a little longer, for sure. And crazy’s always been a good look on him.” 

At Terry’s confused look, Amy can only shake her head. “I don’t get it either,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand how they find an evil piece of shit like the Vulture attractive.” 

An image of Jake Peralta, the one time she saw him out of the suit; tank top sticking to his abs and slightly toned biceps glistening with sweat  pops unwarranted into the front of her brain. Ridiculous. 

Amy shakes her head, imagining herself picking up Mind Peralta and throwing him into a giant Mind trash can, to sit with all the recipes she’d memorized before realizing that she couldn’t cook. It’s a dark, horrible place that he definitely, absolutely deserves. 

“Captain Santiago?” 

She looks up, blushing again, and imagines Mind Peralta being squashed by a trash compactor for distracting her at this pivotal moment. 

“I just asked if you would be interested in taking the lead on the Vulture. It seems like you’ve wrapped up all of your ongoing assignments, aside of course from Peralta--”

“Director you know he prefers ‘Iron Dude,’” Gina says, putting one foot up on the table. The chime sounds once more, another Kupcake Match.

“I, however, do not,” Holt replies, nonplussed. They all ignore the fist his right hand made at the chime. His poor high score. “Will you take the assignment, Santiago?” 

Amy grins, standing up, before sitting down, before standing up again and saluting. “Yes sir, I will. You won’t regret it at all, sir!” 

Holt raises an eyebrow, and Amy blushes for what she hopes will be the last time today. Terry tilts his head as he leans towards Gina, asking when they’d sent the memo about the saluting. Gina rolls her eyes. Diaz smirks. 

Whatever. Captain America Santiago is going to take out the Vulture once and for all, and then she’s going to find the person pulling his strings. It’s going to be totally awesome, and the Times will finally have something to write about her that doesn’t involve another stalemate with Peralta and a Snapchat story of her cleaning the streets after his acts of public vandalism. 

Everyone else, they can all just suck it. 

(Except Director Holt, of course.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love constructive criticism and comments are invaluable to my process!! please help me figure out this disaster fic by commenting if u liked or hating anything about it!!! 
> 
> also;; thanks for reading love u all 
> 
> apologies for the shit summaries and chapter titles


	3. friends are good, punching is also good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amy is bad at scones and also at finding the vulture

So maybe, _ just maybe _ , hunting down the Vulture was easier said than done. 

It’s been a week, and all Amy has to show are 30 detailed maps following Keith Pembroke around the tri-state area -- here he is purchasing toilet paper, here he is eating Italian with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Tila Tequila, here he is guiding not-Tila to a local sex shop, here they are .... well, Amy has that picture turned around, but in the interests of professionalism she’s written “Vulture alley sex” on the back. When she signed on with SHIELD, one of the many benefits offered beyond dental and service to the nation was a specialized training room that they promised would account for her abilities. Along with the Hulk-failed equipment she requested a roll out bed for time-sensitive assignments. 

If her “time sensitive” assignments happen to coincide with the weekends her brothers happen to bring new partners around for dinner, well Amy doesn’t need to be worrying about the possibility of a new viral photo of her enjoying her mother’s chile rellenos. 

Over the years the room has turned from glorified fitness studio into something of a home base for Captain America: Amy painted the walls with some of that chalkboard paint she’d read about on a Reddit thread for classroom organization (one of the five best types of organization in Amy’s expert opinion), and since then she’s managed to use the space to organize the thoughts that stretch the limits of SHIELD’s whiteboards. What middle school psychologist Clara Brown had once diagnosed as OCD and Anxiety has become revered worldwide as an example of Captain America’s tactical abilities, her talent for thinking up hundreds of doomsday scenarios now a skill to stay three steps ahead of the bad guys. 

Chillax her ass. But she really should send Miss Brown a Christmas Card: there's no need to be rude. 

But anyways, Amy hasn’t really left her room in the last seven days and the left wall has gotten a little crowded with what has blossomed into maps of Pembroke and every single person he’s associated with in the last year’s movements. There are pictures and bank records and ATM receipts, lists of store inventories and twelve possible recipes for the chocolate blueberry scone he had at brunch sixty-four days ago with a known arms dealer, to see if any of the ingredients could be part of a coded message. 

Amy bookmarked the Buzzfeed one, but only because it promised to be simple and achievable for even the most disastrous of cooks. 

He’s preparing for something big, and she’s trying to foil his plan before he can put it into action but her intel’s too cold. He’s moving fast, under the cover of a protection he hasn’t had before, and every time she makes it to the spot he’s supposed to be at, she’s just greeted by people who wrinkle their nose at the picture she shows them and say that she’s just missed him. 

“But why are you interested in a sleazy guy like that Miss America” she’s been asked each time.  “If you’re interested, let me set you up with someone I know, a good boy, one who’ll treat you right.” 

“Captain,” Amy sighs. “But thank you.” 

The wall grows, and so does her frustration: at Pembroke, the world, even the blueberry scones which, contrary to Buzzfeed’s promises do  _ not _ bake within the 10 minutes and are eventually thrown out at three am. Amy starts taking breaks to work on something she knows she’s good at: beating things up. 

“Hey nerd, you’re ruining all the bags,” Gina says as she walks in. Amy doesn’t turn away from the thrashing she’s giving to a flesh-colored sack she’s decided to imagine is the Vulture.

“I was promised that the punching bags would be reinforced to accommodate my strength,” she replies, shifting a little to work on her right hook. 

“Yeah well, apparently not when you’re like...running on the awesome power of your anger or whatever she-ra thing is happening here,” Gina says rolling her eyes. “I thought Diaz was the only rage monster on the squad.” 

“I’m not a rage monster,” Amy replies, shifting again to work on her left side. “I’m simply....training.” 

“This ain’t training, hon. This is some _Kill Bill_ level shit.” 

“I wouldn’t say no to the yellow jumpsuit. Or a katana, to be honest.” Amy pauses, considering. “Might be a little culturally appropriative though, so maybe just a claymore or something.” 

Gina pulls out her phone to take a picture. “You know it’s just so sad to see the way stress gets to ya, Ames. Makes you think you’ve got a sense of humor.” 

The punching bag creaks ominously, and Amy sighs, taking a step back and removing her pastel pink gloves, knitted herself using Diaz’ special yarn. “It looks like I’ll be needing another bag.” 

Gina’s already out the door. “You’re a waste of SHIELD resources, Captain Santiago,” is all Amy hears as Black Widow exits the building. 

Five days later, Thor, um,  _ Terry _ wearing a nice mint green sweater and jeans brings in Amy’s twenty-eighth punching bag. Gina’s sure to be sulking somewhere in the ceiling vents. 

“Captain Santiago,” he waves as Amy turns from the wall to greet him. “How’s the hunt coming along?” 

“Eh,” she shrugs, “Clearly not as well as your experiment with human talk.”

He laughs, setting up the bag and testing it a few times. “Well, it isn’t so hard once you get the hang of it. Faster too, and there’s nothing Terry likes more than saving time! Sharon says it’s money, you know.” He pauses, as Amy stifles a grin. “Obviously, Terry likes his kids more than saving time. Also, Sharon.” 

“Of course,” Amy says, hoping her amusement isn’t showing. Her brain to mouth filter tends to get a little fried on sleep deprivation, a necessary casualty to overall functionality. 

“I came to see if I could help,” Terry says, taking a few steps towards the maps on the wall and tracing the connections Amy has drawn in pink chalk, both because it happens to be her favorite color and because the Vulture is a prick who probably thinks pink unmans him. “You sure seem to take the Vulture more personally than the other people we fight. Other than Peralta, but he doesn’t count.” 

Amy pretends not to hear the part about Peralta, walking to where Terry stands and writing some notes next to the lines. 

“I hate him,” she says finally, staring at the way she crossed a "t", erasing it, and rewriting the letter. “The Vulture, not Peralta. Though...Peralta’s not far behind after that stunt he pulled with the bank. Stupid executives yelled at me for hours about  _ optics  _ and how  _ we pay taxes for protection _ as if SHIELD is the Mob or something.” 

Terry clears his throat, and Amy gets back on track. “I just....there’s just so many people just like him, you know? People who look at me and sneer because of my skin or my gender, and they don’t think that I can be Captain America. That I can’t possibly represent the best of America because I’m Latina, rather than another white dude.” 

“You know, the first time I fought him, two months after I got back, he called me mamacita in the street, asked if I’d fuck him like a good whore after he won, and I froze. It was just...I’d fought bad guys in the war, and even super villains who’d wanted to control the world, but I’d actually forgotten what regular old bigotry sounded like, and I couldn’t move.” She clenches her jaw and turns away. “Twelve people were injured because I wasn’t fast enough to stop Pembroke from blowing up the street. America Santiago is one of the greatest human fighters the world has ever known, and one horrible leer made me feel like the girl who used to cry in school bathrooms because she never thought she’d be good enough.”

Terry’s voice, when he speaks, is soft. “So you want to bring him in.” 

Amy nods. “I... I’m Captain America, you know? I have to stay in the lines, work completely within the laws. And...I believe in it, too.I believe that working with the government and following the rules is the best way to make things better....”

“But?” 

“But sometimes I just get so angry! And because I’m Captain America, I can’t go around beating up every person who thinks like the Vulture, all the people on the message boards, who make porn about me being gagged and beaten by a My Little Pony, or picket my speeches and throw plush Pepes at me, but.....” 

“You can beat  _ him _ ,” Terry says, looking around at the remains of the eleven punching bags on the floor that Amy hasn’t bothered to clean up. 

“Yeah. Yeah. I can bring that smug piece of shit in, and take selfies of myself with the Vulture in handcuffs in the background.” She laughs, turning back to face Terry again. “My niece insists she has just the lipstick to really pop against the orange of Pembroke’s prison jumpsuit.” 

Terry smiles, putting a hand on her shoulder. For a second, he tilts his head, shifting slightly back into Thor, God of Asgard and Lord of Thunder. “Then I wish you well, Captain. If you are in need of my assistance, do not hesitate to call. Sharon fixed it so that you’re on my favorites list!” 

Amy smiles and then decides to go with her gut and give him a hug which he readily returns. It really is as nice as Gina says. 

It’s good to have friends, sometimes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this has not been looked at by literally anyone but me so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. im trying to work out the joke balance esp with some more serious content so if u have thoughts on how its going so far PLEASE leave ur comments below. hope u like it!!!!! thanks for all the support this has gotten i love u guys so much!!!!


	4. "fuck," said american icon america santiago.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amy loses her temper. things fall apart.

Another week after her talk with Thor-Terry Amy decides that Keith Pembroke will not be responsible for the many health concerns associated with a lack of REM cycles and goes back to her apartment to sleep. Obviously, because this is exactly what her life is like, a SHIELD alert flashes at three in the morning to report that the Vulture has just been spotted near a hospital in Queens. Amy jumps out of bed, shedding the army t-shirt and running shorts she sleeps in as she grabs the freshly ironed uniform she'd left hanging on the doorknob. 

There’d been talk of modifying the cut after she came back from Afghanistan, rumors of breastplates and skirts and tri-color bedazzled go-go boots that had nearly sent Amy into a panic attack. For one, that amount of exposed skin would mean a ridiculously thorough dedication to hair removal, and a full body wax is becoming more and more expensive in her neighborhood. For another, Amy joined the Army to bring justice to wrongdoers, and nowhere in her contract did it say that she would have to learn how to kick in stilettos and a short skirt. (She would know, too: it took her three days to comb through the entire thing with her third brother Manuel, the lawyer.)

The uniform she wears now is just a slightly sleeker version of what she wore in active combat, dark blue all over and stars across her chest rather than the old vomit of patriotism and leather. Amy puts her hair into a bun, securing it with the super-strength pins she knows Diaz left on her desk a year ago after 2016's widely shared "Captain America choking on her own hair mid-fight" incident and secures her gun in its holster. She opens the alert app on her phone and finds the address of the hospital, grabbing her shield and sliding it onto her back as she locks the door to her apartment.

The streets of New York aren’t much different in the middle of the night -- there are still couples meandering down the sidewalks, men pissing in corners, cars rushing past her motorbike before the drivers recognize her shield and do a double take from their windows. She’s exhausted, but the exhilaration of possibly being able to take down Pembroke has her waving wildly at every passerby who recognizes her. There’s a drunk staggering out of a bar that tries for a sloppy salute before tripping over his own feet and falling onto the pavement, a group of high school students rolling their suitcases as they trek towards their hotel that break out into that horrible jingle the government used to drum up civilian support.

_“Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American Way?”_

Amy Santiago, apparently: former art student, former army captain, sole recipient of the super-soldier serum. She’s so excited that she sings along.

Finally, she gets to an alley near the hospital, and....yes she can see the outline of the Vulture and what looks like a suspiciously stuffed Tila Tequila tote. There are a few options she has right now: she could call him out and engage, she could try to catch him off guard, she could--

“If it isn’t Sexy Santiagooooo, what can I do for you, mamacita?”

Ugh. Her stomach clenches. Engage it is.

“Keith Pembroke, you have the right to remain silent--”

He takes out his gun and fires before she even gets halfway through the Miranda Rights. Rude. Peralta always lets her get past the ‘court of law’ part because he knows how much she likes saying it.

She ducks, grabbing her shield and throwing it, lining up her shot while he tries to move out of the way. She fires, twice, but the suit he’s wearing deflects even the specialized bullets Diaz had created to get through standard bullet-proof technology. His benefactor must be higher up than the team had assumed. Amy holsters her gun, furious for a moment as she catches the shield on its way back and advances. If she can’t shoot him, she might be able to force him to leave, saving the hospital in the short term. She won’t catch him, won’t be able to bring him in, but she she’ll give Diaz enough time to manufacture a new type of bullet based on--

A repulsor shot hits the ground between Amy and the Vulture, and Amy’s mind shrieks in frustration. As if tonight’s failure wasn’t enough, it seems like both of her nemeses are going to show up, just to prove how useless she really is to the entire world. And just to add salt to the wound, she can see that the Times reporter assigned to cover her fights has just arrived via Lyft, and has probably already added three Snaps to the Times’ Snapchat story within the last thirty seconds.

“Peralta,” Amy screams, three pitches shriller than her Public Voice and trying not to burst into angry tears, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“America Santiago!” he gasps. “What on earth are _you_ doing here? And my, does that language _truly_ befit our living legend?”

“Can it, you jerk. It’s three in the morning, and I don’t have _time_ for whatever.... _tomfoolery_ you think you’re doing, okay?”

Tomfoolery. This is why Amy doesn't like meeting Peralta outside of their mutual 9 - 5. The lack of sleep is throwing her off her rhythm. 

“Ha,” Pembroke says, neglecting to comment on Amy's word choice. (Question: does he even know what tomfoolery means?) “Sexy Santiago doesn’t like you either, Peralta. It looks like you’re a loser everywhere!”

Peralta takes off his helmet, revealing a deliberately neutral expression, surprisingly dangerous in a way Amy’s never seen him before.

“Vulture,” he says in an even tone, as he slowly starts his descent.

“I see you’ve come back to get your flat white ass handed to you again, Peralta” The Vulture smirks, considerably more confidence than his own similarly flat white ass deserves. “Or what, I guess they’re calling you Iron Dweeb, or whatever loser name you came up for that loser suit.”

Peralta raises an eyebrow. “Iron Dude.”

Pembroke rolls his eyes. “Whatever, it's a loser name, dude. Loser name for a loser suit that you use to do loser stuff. You’re a fucking disgrace to the profession.”

She can see Peralta’s eyes widen in mock offense, just before he lands on the ground five feet in front of Amy, back turned towards her as he faces the Vulture

“ _Loser_ shit? What, you mean my attempts at liberating the oppressed, equalizing our incredibly imbalanced world, giving sweet, sweet justice to--”

Later, this will be the moment that Amy regrets losing her cool because even then she knew that Peralta wasn’t the one she was mad at, that he doesn’t deserve the ruthless edge of her anger. But, like she said, it’s three in the morning after two weeks of painstaking work, and she knows that she’ll have to let the Vulture go, that she’ll have to let him win without being able to smash his stupid face in a conveniently located pile of horse poop like she'd hoped. Peralta, acting like _he’s_ the good guy here like he hasn’t been the bane of her existence for the past two years throwing eggs and spray painting penises on (Confederate) monuments that she has to scrub off, it’s too much.

All this time Amy’s spent working within the lines, trying to actually help people the _proper way_ , and Jake Peralta thinks he can claim to be doing the same thing?

He has the balls to think he’s actually a hero?

Amy explodes.

“Shut _up_ Peralta! As if you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth, you chaos-loving nincompoop!” She pauses, taking a breath to steady herself before delivering the harshest insult of all. “You know, Holt called you _childish_ , the other day.”

Peralta blinks, taken aback, forehead furrowing in hurt and confusion. “Hey now, I’m just trying to make the world a better place! Just like you, except I’m like ten times chiller and I can fly."

Amy’s eyes widen, and any sense of rationality flies out the window. She’s at the end of her rope, and suddenly Peralta becomes every other white dude that’s ever tried to break the rules to get ahead, that’s had the luxury to deviate from the pure straight and narrow while everyone else waits for Amy Santiago to make a mistake.  

“Like _me_ ? Give me a _break_ Peralta, you and I are nothing alike. You’re a criminal, and I’m ‘Captain freaking America” ok?” Amy continues rambling, mind in hyperdrive as she loses control of her words. “You’ve got no boundaries, no morals, hell, for all I know you and Pembroke could be collaborating together, and splitting whatever reward your boss is paying out for destroying people’s lives. Because that’s what _villains_ do, and it’s my job to stop you.”

She gasps out a breath, knowing that she’s gone too far but telling herself that she doesn’t care about the way Peralta’s face has folded up, that the betrayal in his eyes doesn’t make her lungs flood with guilt. He’s a criminal, she tells herself, and she’s the hero who has to clean up his messes.

He’s a _criminal_.

“I’m not a criminal, Amy,” he whispers, soft and broken-like. “I’m just trying to make things better.”

The worst part is, Amy knows he’s right. There are groups of people who don’t see Iron Dude as a supervillain -- people who watched him slime Trump Tower, and protect Black Lives Matter protestors from the racist police who shot tear gas at their gatherings. Amy, in her position as both a private citizen as well as a national symbol has tried to voice her support in favor of the voiceless, has tried to stand for minority rights and against the hatred of bigots. But Jake Peralta, well he tweets pictures of South Carolina’s stolen Confederate Flag, as he uses it to wipe his ass.

He might not be a hero, but Peralta isn’t a criminal, not really. Sometimes she thinks that what she hates most about him is that he’s allowed to do all the things she can’t.

And, in typical Santiago Style, just when she’s about to apologize, the world around her explodes.

When she can see again, the first thing she notices is the smoke. The rubble, and the smoke. She slowly sits up, vaguely registering the brief spasm of pain somewhere in the region of her torso as scans the area around her for bodies. Someone in the distance is screaming, she can hear the sirens of first responders approaching, but it doesn’t look like there are any casualties in her immediate area.

It was fortunate, she supposes, that the Vulture chose to attack when no one was watching. Another irregularity she catalogs in the back of her mind because the Pembroke she knows would have wanted as large an audience as he could muster.

Then she realizes that Peralta is no longer in front of her, that his unconscious body is lying crumpled against an alley wall, a few hundred feet away from her. He must have taken the brunt of the blast somehow, which is soon explained by what she’s identified as the ache of her broken ribs. She looks down and sees the marks of a repulsor, and knows that his gut reaction must have been to push her out of harm, that usually his helmet would have protected him from an explosion like this.

He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

The Vulture is long gone, having abandoned the hospital in favor of harming Peralta. She hurries to Peralta’s side, ignoring the way her breath seems to give out every time she moves. Amy checks his pulse, his breaths, and then simply waits for him to wake up. She pats his face a few times, raises his eyelids, wonders if she could check him into the hospital she (they?) was trying to protect.

He starts blinking after ten minutes, and Amy never thought she would be so glad to see his eyes.

“You were caught in one of Pembroke’s explosions, that freaking dumbass” she starts rambling again, reverting back into reporting mode. “He’s gone now, but I think I’ve got a good handle of some of his weapons, definitely that bulletproof suit of his. I’ll have to get your friend Diaz to check it out, and you can help her -- I know she ropes you in on the side sometimes, even if you try and hide it. And hey I’m really sorry about--”

He holds up a hand, blinks owlishly, and starts to examine the repulsor on his palm as if he’s never seen one before. As if he doesn’t know it inside out, hasn’t bled over every inch of metal covering his body. A horrible thought occurs to her, the type of thing that doesn’t happen outside of the movies, something so terrible she didn’t think it could be possible in real life, to someone she knows.

Who is she kidding? She’s a _superhero._ Of course this type of crap happens to her.

“Excuse me?” Peralta asks, in a hesitant tone that confirms the roiling sensation in her gut. “Who did you say you were, again? And...um...what am I?”

Amy thinks she can be forgiven for panicking. She punches him, hard, and watches Peralta go out like a light.

Fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think the joke pattern is off for this chapter so i might come back and fix it, but i am open to suggestions on how this story is going!!! this is actually when the plot starts (amnesia is super fun!!!) so im going to try and post at least the next 1 or 2 chapters that i have so that you guys have some idea of how this dynamic is. please read and review!!!


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